Legacy
by winniemazing
Summary: The guns barely whisper as they're slipped between the school doors. It's a day that changes the Upper East Side forever.
1. Limo Cutouts

She sits perched on the edge of the mattress, back straight and hands resting on her thighs. Her eyes are fixed on the space in front of her, mesmerized by flickering images from some imaginary projector. Finally, the chance to be heard in a world where the legacies rule. Her joints are stiff from a night of stillness and there's an annoying itch in the crook of her neck, but she knows that if she moves, the glorious visions will slide like sand through her fingers. A layer of excited, slippery sweat has formed between her thighs and palms. Today, she'll make her own legacy.

The alarm clock beeps in the distance and she's jolted, breathless, out of her reverie. For the first time, she notices the beams of early morning light filtering through her windows. She stretches her stiff muscles, scratches the crook of her neck. Soft carpet tickles her feet as she slides off of the bed. Slowly, she strolls to the full-length mirror opposite the bed and makes a face as she examines herself. It looks like she's been choked on and spit out. She hasn't eaten or slept in twenty-four hours. Her bun, which she had twisted and secured so carefully, now resembles a matted pile of auburn shrapnel. The remains of yesterday's mascara bleed into the dark circles under her eyes.

And yet, she has never looked more alive.

* * *

His alarm rings slowly and painfully today, like there's a broken, warbling amp in his ears. Something is pushing at the inside of his skull. He wonders if it would be possible to acquire a hangover without being drunk the light before. Moaning, he throws an arm clumsily at the alarm clock and is only half surprised when his knuckles ram into the edge of his nightstand. A searing pain shoots up his forearm and he winces. Coupled with the throbbing pressure inside his head, it's enough to make him want to strangle something. Rolling over to glare at the glowing numbers, he grabs the clock with heavy fingers and throws it weakly against the wall. It shuts off, thankfully, but the numbers still taunt him with mirth in their glow.

He sighs and sits up in his sheets. His head feels wobbly on his shoulders so he lets it loll to the side. Today is the day. The pressing urge to vomit coming from deep in his abdomen keeps him from being as excited as he should be. In his mind, what they're doing is easy to grasp, but his body is rebelling against the idea. Stumbling out of bed, he makes his way to the bathroom and leans the door shut behind him. School starts in a little less than an hour, and he really doesn't have the time to entertain his body's newfound independence.

With his back still pressed against the mahogany door, he turns his head to look at himself in the mirror. All night he had hovered in a limbo between asleep and awake, thoughts and nightmares spinning around and around until one was the other and he was left with a dizzy headache. It shows on his face, which seems to have aged since he last saw it. His cheeks are hollow, and his eyes have sunken into their sockets. Even his signature curly hair seems a little less bouncy and a little grayer. When he squints, he can see the wrinkles forming just beneath the surface of his skin.

He stares into the mirror, and death stares back at him.

* * *

She thinks she's curling her fingers around the gun, but when she closes her eyes she swears she feels the slick, metal goo engulfing her palm. It's warm and comfortable there, almost as if the gun's been molded especially for her. A foreign urge zigzags down her spine, and she no longer feels the difference between warm flesh and cool steel as she raises the weapon and aims at an invisible bull's-eye on the wall. Her finger twitches on the syrupy trigger, pressing cautiously, but she catches herself. She might be going crazy. In fact, she's almost sure she has. Insanity is sour and numbing in her chest but she finds that with the way today excites her, she just doesn't care.

Her phone vibrates and her purse trembles beside her. It yanks her out of herself so quickly that she gets whiplash. With the faint sensation of ripping off a limb, she pries her fingers away from the handgun and drops it in her bag. In a moment her phone replaces the weapon in her hand, and she doesn't need to look to see who's calling. There's only one person who would even consider disturbing her so early in the morning. Grinning at the caller ID, she waits several rings before flipping the phone open. She can imagine him on the other end, clenching and unclenching his loose fist like he always does when he's agitated. He knows that she doesn't pick up right away just to annoy him. He knows a lot of things about her.

* * *

"What do you want?" It's her fake irritated voice, but he's sure she's been expecting his call.

"Good morning."

She snorts, still somehow managing to seem ladylike. Her voice sounds casual, but he sees the excitement oozing through his phone's speakers.

"Morning. Big day, right?"

The cell phone trembles as his hand hardens around it and the grin fades from his lips.

"We're really doing this." He says the question instead of asking it because he already knows the answer.

"No, Will. We've only been planning this for, what, eight months? Let's just forget about it, okay?"

"What the hell?" Shaking his head, he slips out of his monogrammed pajama bottoms and into a fresh pair of St. Jude's slacks. Of course she's just kidding with him, but God help this girl's sense of humor.

Giggles flutter against his ear, and he fights his own urge to chuckle.

"Sorry," she says, even though she probably isn't. "My sarcasm is kind of off right now. I didn't get any sleep last night."

He raises an eyebrow, cradling the phone between the side of his face and his shoulder as he fiddles with the buttons on his yellow shirt. "Why's that? Was there a party I wasn't invited to?"

Another laugh, but this one is bitter and scratches rather than tickles. "We don't get invited to parties."

"This is true." Now he's running clumsy fingers through the school necktie, trying and somewhat failing at the sophisticated windsor knot his father had taught him when he was a preteen. After a few tugs and pinches, he decides it looks decent enough and takes his phone off his shoulder. The tension must be apparent in his voice, because she sighs. He pictures her, all stick-straight auburn hair and rolling green eyes.

"I'll redo the tie for you before school today."

"No, it looks fine," he lies, frowning at the lopsided knot in his collar. "But I think it's good that we're never invited to parties. We don't get caught up in all that stuff. We're excellent kids."

He only says it to make her laugh again, for real this time. She gives him what he wants, and he's relieved.

"We are pretty great, aren't we? Until today, anyway."

Again, he feels his smile immediately falling slack. Maybe if he lies hard enough he can convince himself that the nausea and the second pulse inside his skull are symptoms of his excitement. Maybe she can even help him. They've always been great liars, especially to themselves. It's part of the Upper East Side job description.

"Well, I'm straightening my hair." Her voice is suddenly soft and distant, and he realizes that she's put him on speakerphone. "It's been a bitch lately, and I want it to look good today. I'll never get a chance to fix it if it doesn't."

"Oh. You're right."

Strange, he hasn't thought of that. Gazing at his worn reflection in the mirror, he wishes there was a way to twist a lid on the life that has floated out of his body like steam. He considers swiping his sister's makeup for half a second but decides that he'd rather die like a man. There's a bottle of gel next to his mouthwash courtesy of the maid, so he squeezes a dollop onto his fingers and runs them through his brown curls like he does before formal events. His hair actually does look better that way. Regretfully, he wonders why he didn't do it more often.

"I have to go," he says, trying to mask his frustration. She sees right through him as always, even over the miles and cell phone towers between them.

"I'm sure you look fine. I'll meet you on the steps before school to fix your stupid tie."

"Hey, I don't know what you're talking about," he scoffs, walking out of the bathroom and feeling a little better now that he can no longer see himself. "I look hot."

She laughs yet again, harder this time, and he knows it's because she loves it when he makes himself look stupid. "Whatever you say. Bye, sexy."

Then she hangs up, because she always needs to have the last word.

He should let her fix his tie today.

* * *

The sky is a cloudy gray, the usual blue frosted with winter and topped with exhaust from the never-ending game of tag that cars and taxis play around the city. In their neighborhood, several limousines join the chase, parting the crowds with their auras of wealth and sophistication. One of these is parked, as usual, just beyond the gates outside her house. She shuts the gate behind her with the heel of her designer boot and opens the door of the limo, sliding in seamlessly without missing a beat in the rhythm of her steps. It's a new world of plush leather and tinted windows when she closes the door.

"Where to, Miss Sophia?" the driver inquires, lowering the partition in the limo. The answer's been the same for the past three years, but he always asks anyway. He flashes his almost perfect teeth at her. They look exactly like the pamphlets she's seen in the dentist's office except for one treacherous canine that leans backward as if scared of the tooth in front of it. On several occasions she's considered buying him a pair of braces. Today, she's feeling particularly generous.

"Constance Billard, please," she says, then reaches into her purse and pulls out her wallet. A thick wad of bills meant for emergency shopping is between her fingers before she can think about it, and she shoves it at him through the wall-shaped space between them. "Here, take this. I don't need it. Maybe you could fix that tooth or something."

He hesitates, genuinely concerned blue eyes extending to her like a stethoscope, trying to diagnose her. She wishes the sky was that blue. After an eternity, he pinches the money between his own fingers and tucks it lovingly into his wallet, smoothing the corners like he's reassuring himself that it's real. She's glad for him. Driving limousines can't pay very much.

The blue eyes reach for her again, this time x-raying her to see what she wants him to do. They crave to thank her, but they're smart and understand that she won't accept it. With a confused blink, they dart back to the street in front of the limo.

"You're in a good mood today," the driver says finally, a smile in his voice. He doesn't seem to care for a response because the partition rolls up and he disappears from view before any sound can bubble out of her throat. Beaming, she rests her forehead on the dark glass window and watches the pedestrians blur together on the sidewalk.

"Yeah, I really am," she murmurs.

They both know that he won't use the money for braces, but she tried.

* * *

The limousine on the street is like one of his expensive silver watches on his wrist; awkward and out of place, yet he can't imagine it not being there. Every morning, the limo is in the same place on the grainy asphalt, like someone's flattened the streets and drawn an outline for it. When he tries to picture the sidewalk behind it, all he sees is a vehicle-shaped cutout. The driver holds the door open for him in that practiced stiff way as he ducks into the familiar smell of leather and pretentiousness in the air. As always, the ceiling is less than an inch from the top of his head. Slouching in his seat to ease the feeling of walls closing in around him, he waits for the driver to slide behind the wheel.

"St. Jude's, sir?"

He considers. He shakes his head before realizing that the driver isn't looking at him. If he's late, he'll just bring his teacher a French vanilla in exchange for questions left unasked and some tweaking to the roster.

"Actually, would you mind stopping at the café first?" He'll need it. It's been a full half hour since he woke up, and already there are weights swinging like pendulums from his struggling eyelids.

Before the vehicle picks up speed, he makes it a point to peer out the window opposite him and finally see what's behind the limo. It's nothing special, just more tree-lined sidewalks and rich elderly bundled in cashmere on their early-morning walks.

He's satisfied even through the anticlimax, because now at least he knows.

* * *

_Bam, bitch.  
_

_Ahaha. Tell me what you think? I realize that this is kind of a boring introductory chapter, but I promise there will be action coming soon. I hope you like my shooters. ;)_

_reviewpleasethanksIloveyoubye._


	2. Puzzle Pieces

Serena sighs warm breath and leans into him, blond wisps whipping across the lapel of his jacket. Their puzzle pieces are an awkward fit. Her chin juts into his collarbone and the top of her head forces his jaw to the side, but he's convinced himself to love it. There's also that his piece is battered and dirtied with Brooklyn while hers is pristine, fresh from some department store. He wonders if he could convince himself to love that, too. She groans, sending little twitches to his shoulder where her lips are buried.

"Da-an," she whines, shaking her head cutely and wrapping her stringy arms around him, "it's too early."

He muffles his agreement in her shampoo scented hair. They'd spent last night and part of the morning together, half working on their respective English papers and half making out on his bed when Rufus and Jenny were a safe distance away. It was 2:30 in the morning when Serena left his loft with a sloppy kiss and was nearly run over in her drowsy attempt to hail a cab. He would kiss her again now if he had more energy, but the fatigue has drugged his lips. Instead, he scans the school campus with half-lidded eyes.

A kid from Dan's history class leans against the railing of the steps with a coffee cup in each hand, accompanied by a redhead who laughs at his tie and reaches over to fix it. Several other happy couples are sprinkled across the courtyard. Some hold hands innocently or share breakfast, purposely grabbing just one fork so that they can feed one another. Others entangle, bodies slithering together as they hiss silently through their knotted tongues. In the circles friends form, earphones are shared while cell phones are swapped and peeked through. Past the swarm of students, Dan spots a familiar curly brunette head bouncing toward him and Serena.

"Hey, Serena. Dan," Blair acknowledges, though not without a disgusted wrinkle of her nose. She's refrained from teasing as much recently. These days, her social status isn't much higher than his.

"Blair!" Serena pulls away from him to hug her friend; he resists the urge to yank her back. "How are you?"

Blair shrugs. "Fine, I guess. Except for Nate. And Chuck, and the whole school thinking I'm a pregnant slut."

"Too much angst, B," Serena giggles. "You have me. And Dan knows you're not a slut, right?"

Two guys in one week actually does sound like an awful lot to Dan, but he doesn't plan on telling Blair this. "Uh, yeah, totally. Blair Waldorf, you are a Humphrey certified clean teen."

"Aw, thanks, Cabbage Patch."

He winces. Before he can defend himself, Serena starts with sudden realization.

"Wait, hold on, what's bothering you about Chuck? I thought you guys were done."

Blair's eyebrows furrow. Between them, a shallow canyon forms in her skin. "Didn't I tell you what he said to me on Thursday?"

A shake of Serena's head sends the pressure and hurt built up inside Blair streaming toward the sky. Blair spews frustrated lines about guys who pretend to care, complete with angry sighs and hand gestures. Dan tries his best to listen, but the girls lose him somewhere between insults and Arabians and washed-up virtue.

* * *

Will really wishes Mr. Munich would stop doing that.

The teacher's hands are planted greedily on Sophia's waist, his thumbs buried inside her untucked blouse and stroking her stomach. For the second time that morning, Will tastes acid bile boiling at the back of his throat. If he weren't empty except for a few sips of coffee, he might throw up. He pictures his would-be vomit soaking into the concrete underneath them. It's cocoa-colored and runny with an ungodly amount of sugar and whipped cream.

"Everything's ready. I've got all the materials, everything," Mr. Munich says, nuzzling the crook of Sophia's neck with the tip of his nose. She giggles and leans back, bracing herself against the brick wall behind her. Her chest juts out purposely. Greedy fingers wander upward, blouse scrunching together at her ribs. Sophia fakes a quiet moan as the man shudders against her.

"Good," she replies finally. "You don't know how grateful we are that you're helping us."

Pale winter light droops from the sky and paints rings on Mr. Munich's balding head. Will jitters and mimes checking his watch. Over the teacher's shoulder, Sophia pours a scalding glare on him that burns until he blisters. He wonders idly why he's thinking in vomit and blisters this morning.

Forever later, Sophia pulls away from the teacher, who wipes spit off of his lips with the back of his hand. Will sags in relief. Mr. Munich looks horny and puzzled.

"We have to get to class," she explains. "But let's finish this later?"

Will chokes on the clichéd line, earning him a hard nudge from Sophia's high heel and probably a mental slap. With a peck on Mr. Munich's thin lips, Sophia digs her manicure into Will's jacket and drags him to the courtyard where the other students are gathered. They stop near the steep steps and Sophia turns to face him, her eyes lit with green fire. He tries to shake her off, but her fingers are quicksand around his arm.

Finally, he concedes and lets the sand consume him. "What's your problem?"

"Gosh, I don't know," Sophia deadpans. "Maybe you should go make out with Mr. Munich while I watch and gag. Then we would understand each other."

"Sorry. It's just kind of sickening to look at." He refuses the bait she dangles in front of him. The timing for a fight is worse now than ever.

Sophia huffs, but the green fire recedes. "It's only sickening because you're jealous."

"You're right, I'm really jealous. I don't know what I'm more jealous of, his baldness or his chronic sweating problem."

"No, you're jealous that I've given him more action in the past month than I'll ever give you."

Then she flounces down the steps toward Constance in a bubble of auburn and victory, and he doesn't even try to deny it.

Will really hates himself sometimes.

* * *

Chuck leans back against a courtyard bench, cigar in one hand and girl in the other. This one is a blonde with a fruity taste that flirts with the cigar's silk texture. It's his favorite early morning pick-me-up—nothing like expensive smoke on a girl's tongue before school starts. Coffee doesn't stand a chance against this. Using his lips to distract her, Chuck slings his arms around her waist and lets his hands droop lower.

"Stop it, Chuck!" The girl's high-pitched giggle spoils the magic. He'd wanted a bench in a dark corner so they could get away with more, but she'd insisted on one in the middle of the courtyard. Not that the other students seem to notice. They don't acknowledge him anymore, not even with snickering whispers behind their hands. Chuck Bass is dead to the Upper East Side.

A scan around the schoolyard makes him contemplative. The world around him blurs like he's squinting through glasses that aren't his, and he wonders if it's because he's no longer a part of it. He has Blair to thank for that, for shoving him off the face of the earth with the tip of her manicured finger. A lump of resentment thumps in his chest to replace his missing heart. She's robbed him of his reputation, his best friend, and his pride, all in one fatal swipe. As if her wealth wasn't enough. But it's stopped mattering, anyway, because Chuck is dead. And so, he notices, is Nathaniel Archibald.

In a haze of school uniforms, Nate's face is somehow razor sharp. Chuck figures they're in the same realm now, ruined by that girl too easy to love for all her imperfections. Nate must feel the brown stare probing him, because he stops walking and offers Chuck a glare to freeze fire. Having built up immunity over the years, Chuck goes after him, leaving the girl on the bench. He's surprised not to hear any protesting whimpers as he leaves. She's a fast learner. Making a mental note to call her sometime, Chuck hooks Nate's arm and reels him in before he can wriggle away. There are so many things to say, but Chuck starts simple.

"Walk with me to chemistry, Nathaniel."

Nate glares again. Chuck doesn't flinch.

"Come on," Nate spits, agitation doodled across his face. "You and Blair aren't stupid; you guys know I don't want anything to do with you. Leave me alone, I'm not going to forgive you."

"So don't. Just walk to chemistry with me."

"I'd rather die," Nate says, and Chuck doesn't have the heart to tell him he already has. In the time it takes for Chuck to choke back a sarcastic laugh, Nate has jerked away from Chuck's grip and flown down the steps. The warning bell clangs, and Chuck trails after the shaggy blonde head with the sad recognition that Nate isn't his best friend anymore. Almost like death had done them part.

* * *

Sophia can't believe how small her existence has become as she sits in the foreign language classroom with eyes and ears shut. Just three things are here in her world, and she clutches them like lifelines. The clock, its second hand inching forward. The bell, splattered with rust and age. And her favorite, the gun. Dormant for now, it sits in her purse and snores patiently. It's pure power, solidified and shaped exactly to fit the curves of her fingers. Nothing else has ever made her feel so valuable.

A clock. A bell. A gun.

That's all there is.

In five minutes, the clock will nudge the bell to ring and release a herd of students into the halls for passing period. In maybe twenty, Will will meet her at the front doors of the school with the other St. Jude's boys trailing behind him. Then the guns will leap to their palms and she'll finally know what it's like to feel the cool trigger give beneath her finger.

A voice tugs, jerking her back to the classroom. All around her, students murmur intelligible sentences with German overtones. The teacher's eyes drill into Sophia's, mining for shame. He raises his voice, but he's on mute; all Sophia hears is the clock's hushed ticking and the bell's blaring silence.

The second hand torments her. She can almost smell the time growing stale, like fading perfume. Just three minutes left until the bell chimes and her legacy begins. She can't wait.

* * *

The ancient school bells clang and are swallowed by the digital blaring of the fire alarm. A thick cloud of smoke wanders through the halls. Flocks of students groan about fire drill procedures, but the smoke soon nestles itself in their throats and nostrils. Then they're winded by comprehension, and the panic rises almost as fast as the smoke.

Will checks his watch and squints to keep his eyes from burning. Mr. Munich had been right on cue. A part of Will wishes that he wasn't, that he would be completely useless. Then maybe Sophia wouldn't let his clumsy hands stain her every curve. Then maybe she'd let Will touch her instead, careful and tender like she deserves…

A green-eyed monster inside Will cackles. He feeds it all his jealousy and bitterness and hopes that it's enough for now. As always, he buries it so deep in his chest that even Sophia won't see its fangs. It doesn't even matter now how much he wants her. Soon they'll be done, he'll press the gun against his forehead, and everything will drift into silence. The thought of the end fills him up as he joins a clump of uniforms headed for a side door. He can't wait.

* * *

Dan is crying. His eyes are losing a war against the smoke, which has already penetrated his eyelids and now stabs his pupils until they bleed tears. The flock of students he's with bunches up by the school's front doors, so Dan jostles his way outside to relieve himself from the advancing smoke. Ignoring the angry mumbles and curses behind him, he blinks and lets the fresh breeze heal his eyes' battle wounds. Once the stinging subsides, he scans around for a familiar face. It doesn't take long. Chuck Bass adjusts his scarf a few steps ahead of Dan, fingers lingering thoughtfully on a spot on his throat. Probably a hickey. Dan strides the gap between them closed and taps Chuck on the shoulder. Chuck turns, looking annoyed at first, then smug.

"Very masculine, Humphrey," he croons, dry brown eyes examining the moisture on Dan's cheeks. His voice is quieter than usual. "What, did Serena leave you?"

"You're an ass." Dan wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. "What happened?"

"Someone left a Bunson burner on in Munich's room." Chuck's voice sounds hoarse, and he coughs. "We're relocating to Constance for the rest of the day. I don't really mind, all those legs in skirts…"

"Like Blair's?" Dan quips. Chuck's eyes narrow. "What's wrong with your voice, man?"

"Some people start crying when they're around smoke," he shoots Dan a glare, "and others find it hard to breathe."

"You have asthma?" Dan never pictured Chuck with any ailments, except maybe a few STDs. "Where's your inhaler?"

"I don't carry it with me." They're reaching Constance Billard's heavy front doors now, and Chuck holds one open for Dan. "I wouldn't want girls thinking that I get out of breath too fast."

Dan chooses to ignore him and glances around the school. Compared to the musky scent of St. Jude's, the faint concoction of perfume in the air smells impossibly sweet. The halls of Constance are bloated with students from two schools, and Chuck's eyes trace the girls' legs as the pass. It occurs to Dan that he and Chuck are loitering aimlessly in the hallway.

"Where—?"

"Auditorium. You ask too many questions, Humphrey."

Then, out of nowhere, it happens. The gunshot is deafening. For one moment, the entire hallway shifts toward the noise. Footsteps fall, silent as snowflakes against the linoleum. Lockers freeze mid-slam; breaths come out in icy whispers. Winter isn't just outside anymore. The world stops spinning. And when Dan sees the head of blonde hair plummeting toward the ground, golden wisps fanning out like feathers, his heart stops beating.

* * *

_So it's been three months since I last updated. My bad. Haha. I don't really have an excuse, except for that I was uninspired. So um. Review, sexy. _

_Yeah, I pretty much just hit on you ;D_


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